Midsummer’s Weekend

They told us we were going to have a beauty,
The weekend would be hot and dry and clear,
Sun, sun, sun, oh kiss my Tutti Frutti,
Possibly the best one of the year.

The sun outlined the curtains Saturday morning,
Shining as the rising hour neared.
Then suddenly, entirely without warning,
The bloody sun just upped and disappeared.

The clouds and clouds just rolled in altogether,
Miles and miles with ne’er a bluey chink.
Disappointment in the Irish weather
Is not a strange phenomenon, I think.

Saturday and Sunday never brightened,
We even had a few slight spots of rain,
The omnipresent grey skies never lightened,
As we surveyed them through the window pane.

And then, on Sunday night, around eight twenty,
When everyone had glumly turned away,
The grey skies split and there was sun a-plenty
For the last remaining hour of the day.

Why do they build our hopes and then destroy them?
Why don’t they give the worst scenario?
Why do folk continue to employ them?
We’re better off just going with the flow.